


Time to be the captain

by a_sparrows_fall



Category: Captain America (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 17:23:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14454165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_sparrows_fall/pseuds/a_sparrows_fall
Summary: Steve finds Rocket in the lab.





	Time to be the captain

He doesn’t know why he came down here. Tony’s auxiliary lab in the basement of New Avengers Headquarters.

(No. That’s not true. He does know. He just—

It doesn’t matter.)

He’s a little surprised his security code still works. He doesn’t have long to marvel at it, though.

The soundproof glass doors part and an echo of metallic chaos pours out: parts crashing against each other, against the floor, a whir of tools powering up and then down again. The sounds of mechanical creation. It’s not so different from any other day back when the lab was inhabited.

But that’s the thing: this _is_ different from any other day.

From _every_ other day.

There’s no one in the lab he can see—at first.

As he rounds the corner and looks past the first workstation to see gears and servos and all manner of things he doesn’t have a name for being chucked in the air seemingly without care from behind the second, he also hears the scrabble of tiny feet—no, paws—and his brain makes the connection even before the one making all the racket hops onto the desktop.

Even after all that, it’s still a bit of a shock when the raccoon—or the thing that looks like a raccoon—opens up its pointy little snout and talks to him.

“Oh, hey, Rogers,” he says, casually, not tearing his sharp, dark eyes away from the parts in his grasp. "You need something?”

Steve needs… Steve needs to stay focused.

“What are you doing down here?”

Rocket assembles pieces so quickly and with such precision, Steve can barely discern the individual movements. He does it like he was born to it. Maybe he was.

He’s not so very different from someone else who used to work in this lab.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” He cranks a bolt into place. "I’m making a huge frickin’ bomb. One of several. _More_ than several.”

Steve’s eyes go wide.

“Rocket—” he starts.

The creature cuts him off, still flying about the desk from part to part, continuing his frantic assembly.

“Sure, sure, you don’t wanna live on top of bombs—figured you’d say that. I’m gonna put ‘em in boxes. I’m good for it. Ask—” His ears pitch back slightly as he winces. He swallows. “Ask anyone.”

Steve feels a muscle in his jaw twitch.

“We’re not gonna stop Thanos with a bomb.”

“Buddy,” Rocket laughs sardonically, “you haven’t see _my_ bombs.”

In complete contrast with his casual tone, he fastens something with a timer to the main body piece, forepaws rigid with a fierceness that borders on aggression, then sifts through another pile of junk, cursing as he searches.

Steve puts a hand over the parts.

“Stop, okay? _Stop—_ ”

“Get your fleshy mitts off my stuff—”

“It’s not—”

“Rogers, I swear, if you don’t put that down—”

He doesn’t grab Rocket, or slam a fist down onto the desk. You don’t do that to a fellow soldier, not ever, not if you can help it. But he does lean in and tighten his grip around the edge of the counter; when he says it, he’s inches away from Rocket’s nose, demanding attention.

 _“_ It’s not going to bring them _back_. _”_

Rocket stills for a moment, then hurls the screwdriver in his grasp across the room. It lands with a deafening clatter.

He stands there, panting, his shoulders gradually sinking lower and lower, until finally, just as the weight of his own hurt threatens to pull him the rest of the way down, he balls up his paws, shoves his fists hard into his eye sockets, and _yells_.

He quiets, and when he pulls his hands away from his face, Steve can see the fur around his eyes is damp.

He sits, letting his legs flop off the edge of the desk, and slumps forward, the fight utterly gone from him.

“Yeah,” he says, when his ragged breaths finally return his voice to him, more broken than it was before. “I know.”

The lab is silent.

“I saw him die once already. That was officially the worst thing I ever—” He grits his teeth, shakes his head. “He’s not supposed to be able to die. Not for good.”

And the weight of it hits Steve all over again.

Bucky, falling.

Tony, falling.

He locks out his own knees in response, pushing against it, the strain of it, tipping his head back as his throat goes tight—

So many near misses—but this wasn’t a near miss—

“ _Hey_.”

Rocket’s gruff interjection yanks him out of his descent, and when he looks down again, his friend is standing up, defiant.

“We don’t know about Quill and Stark,” he says, paws clenched at his sides. “We don’t know.”

Steve nods, once shakily, and then more confidently. He tries to slide the mask into place like the helmet he used to wear; he doesn’t quite manage it.

“You’re right,” he says anyway.

Rocket huffs a laugh so small it’s barely audible.

“Aww, cripes, am I comforting _you_ now?” His lips pull back in a sharp-toothed half-sneer-half-smile. “Being the Captain _sucks_.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “It does.”


End file.
